Pleasure Bot
by Flarn
Summary: Post 2007 movie. BeeSam, BeeOptimus, BeeRatchet, BeeIronhide, BeeOther? Response to the crack prompt of What if Bumblebee were the pleasure bot of the Autobot group? Rated MA for mature content.


This story is something I threw together because of a very amusing prompt on the Beexsam livejournal community, which asked us to imagine that Bumblebee was the pleasure bot of the group, and how Sam might react, assuming he and Bee were also an item.

Most likely a one shot, but it does have unexpectedly delicious angst potential, I have discovered, so there may be more episodes thrown in if I get inspired.

As the title and subject matter would suggest, this contains sexuality.

* * *

Pleasure Bot 

He was theirs before he was mine. That's what I keep telling myself. In a curious way they are dependant on him. They need him, as much as I do.

All the same, it's hard to watch, hard like my cock in my hand, rubbed almost raw, and spending on the cold ground while they touch him and hold him and make him cry from the pleasure they are sharing. It would be easier if he was faking, but my Bee could never fake it - he told me once he wasn't even sure if it was physically possible. Not only that, but he is so responsive, so very sensual, almost like he was built for this job.

He loves his work, and his work loves him.

Usually he takes care of one of them per visit, but on special occasions they each take a turn, one after another. If they were human they would have argued over who got to be with him first, but in their case they fight over who gets to be last because they love to watch each other with him. It really excites them - they seem to have no shame or embarrassment or jealousy. Unlike me.

Ratchet is on him now. I can't watch, but I can't look away. Something about what I am seeing, with Bee's smaller yellow body pinned and writhing, dwarfed by the other bot's larger green bulk, awakes a sort of primitive need inside of me, one I can't quite explain. My penis is sore, but it manages to rise once again.

Bee moans loudly, there is a flash of light, a zapping sound like current arcing from high voltage wires, and the medic above him collapses, spent. Ratchet is so quiet when he comes, it always catches me by surprise.

Ironhide is anything but quiet. The huge black Autobot growls softly as he approaches Bee's prone form, optics bright with arousal, and my sweet, uninhibited Camaro stretches invitingly, his own gaze sultry and dim. That's all the teasing Ironhide will take, and he lowers himself to cover the smaller bot with surprising gentleness, firmly pressing their sparks together and then drawing back slowly before repeating the motion. I can tell by his grunts that he's very close and trying to hold back - watching Ratchet and Bee had obviously done a number on his control as it had on mine.

I work my cock slowly, imagining that I'm the one crouched over Bee's trembling body, taking him again and again, making him come only for me.

Ironhide finishes, clawing the ground with a savage howl that makes my blood run cold and hot at the same time, but Bee's mewling whimpers are what make me come again.

This time Optimus is last. Only the smallest of tremors betray the fact that he needs this just as much as the others. His hands shake as he caresses the yellow form spread before him, but he still takes his time. Already worked up from the other two bots he 'serviced', Bee is sobbing, uttering broken exclamations in their language as his leader touches him all over. Even though I don't understand what he's saying, I know what it is nonetheless. He's begging for it, I can tell by the way his body arching, shaken with need.

I keep telling myself that this is just his job, that what happens between us is different, special.

He comes for Optimus with an agonized wail, and the massive flame-patterned robot follows moments later, groaning deeply. The smell of ozone is thick in the air.

I pull up my jeans and underwear, and kick dirt over the small puddle of ejaculate that spatters the ground before leaving the bushes where I had been hidden, for my own privacy rather than theirs.

Bee is still on the ground. Every now and then waves of blue current race over his form: afterglow is a very literal term where Autobots are concerned.

It is some time before he gets shakily to his feet, and transforms back into his Camaro mode to take me home. This is one of the few occasions when he actually lets me do the driving.

The closed space of the car interior fills quickly with the scent of my thwarted desire, the musk and sweat of arousal I had to satisfy myself tonight while he was satisfying them. It mixes with a lingering hint of ozone, the passions of man and machine combined.

"I love you, Sam," Bee's exhausted voice whispers through the radio.

"I know."


End file.
